


Whore

by Paraxdisepink



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/pseuds/Paraxdisepink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio is forced to buy De Vergesse’s silence in order to keep him going to the Don with accusations of spying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whore

Horatio stood rigid as Colonel Devergesse leveled his accusations, his anger at Miss Cobham’s newly discovered deceit a mere candle to the absurdity the Frenchman laid before them. Spying? How could he even think it? But the man’s eyes pinned them each with complete conviction, severe and threatening.

That gaze lingered on Miss Cobham now, seeking to unnerve her where she stood in her elegant blue dress maintaining a lady’s composure as well as an actress could be expected to. “In the new Republic of France,” Devergesse intoned in his unsettlingly smooth accent, “the Guillotine does not discriminate between sexes.”

There was no missing the slight lowering of her eyes. She was off balance, that was plain, but more than that Horatio found himself wondering – fearing – that Devergesse’s accusations were true. If she would deceive them in one way, would she then not deceive them in another? If only he’d had those damned dispatches in his possession again. Horatio did not know what was worse, that she had lied or that he had fallen for it with perhaps treacherous consequences. 

Quick to recover herself, Miss Cobham drew herself up, taking hold of her skirts and putting on a noblewoman’s airs. “This is absurd, and I don’t have to listen to word of it.”

She turned from the room, striding right through the door and closing it behind her. Devergesse made no move to stop her. An odd feeling started in the pit of Horatio’s stomach. If one held another in suspicion of gross illegality then it hardly made sense to allow them to leave. 

But leave she did, and that knotted sensation gained strength when he and the Colonel stood alone together. He could feel the man’s eyes on him, studying him in the silence that followed Miss Cobham’s exit, determined to incriminate him somehow. Horatio swallowed. Neither his own innocence nor the plain logic that would unravel any of Devergeese’s wild theories bolstered him with any confidence. 

Attempting to steady himself, Horatio clasped his hands behind his back, half wondering why he did not follow Miss Cobham’s example and leave too. But he supposed his own honor was a damning thing, preventing him from leaving until the matter was settled. 

“You have nothing to say for yourself?” Devergesse positioned himself in front of him, his tone still low and soft. Horatio swallowed again. Why did the man look at him expectingly as though waiting for him to take his turn in a game? 

Raising his head, Horatio tucked in his chin. This was no game, but a serious matter. “I’m under no obligation to answer to you, sir,” he countered bravely.

Devergesse did not so much as bat an eye. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze a weight now on Horatio’s face. “Perhaps not. But I do not think you would wish me to bring my suspicions to the Don.”

“He would find them baseless.”

His confidence slipped the instant the words left his mouth. The French and Spanish were allies now. The Don was more likely to trust the word of an ally than an enemy. His doubts must have shown in his face. Devergesse inched even closer, cocking his head. 

“Would he? As I said it was too convenient for you to sail into the Spanish fleet with so consummate an actress.”

An actress. Horatio frowned at the reminder of his own stupidity. Archie had warned him. He should have demanded the return of his dispatches immediately.

“I had no notion that she –“

There was no point in arguing his ignorance on her identity. Devergesse did not seem to listen. The man stalked around him in a close circle, so close that Horatio fancied he could feel the man’s steady heartbeat where his own had begun to waiver nervously. 

He nearly jumped when strong hands found his shoulders, hot and unwelcome, but seemingly implacable nonetheless. “At the very least the two of you would be searched.” The voice in his ear came even lower and softer than before. Horatio froze when Devergesse’s hands slid from his shoulders, moving slowly down over his chest as though searching through the thick cloth of his jacket. “Should anything incriminating be found upon either of your persons it would certainly mean death.”

Upon their persons . . . the dispatches . . . . God only knew what they contained. He should have cast them into the sea as Captain Pellew had ordered. But why take such an interest? Surely it was not the passion of blind patriotism that had led Devergesse to pin him here with his heavy, searching hands. This confrontation seemed much more personal than that. But how is it that a mere acting lieutenant would attract the man’s interest? The same puzzling way that he had attracted Captain Pellew’s or the Don’s, he supposed. Yet neither had ever laid their hands upon him like this. 

“What are you after, sir? Surely I could not pose so much of a threat to France.”

A soft chuckle rumbled in Horatio’s very ear. His skin crawled at the unsettling intimacy of the man’s breath tickling his skin. His heart beat faster; he could not bear the closeness, the sense of entrapment. “That remains to be seen,” Devergesse murmured. “For the moment you could say I seek a bargain of sorts.”

The strong sense of insult gave Horatio the strength to tear away from the Frenchman’s hold. He turned sharply to face him. “I do not bargain with the ene-“

Devergesse did not give him the chance to finish. A soft, sly smile played about his lips, and he smoothly interjected. 

“As I said, Miss Cobham would find herself under the guillotine.” Horatio’s mouth tightened to hear that threat a second time. He had no wish to see her come to harm, but at the moment the fact of her innocence remained uncertain. In any case, his grimace was evidently not the response Devergesse had aimed for. The man’s eyes narrowed and he tried for something else. “I also hear you have a friend you are nursing back from the brink of death. It would be a shame for an innocent man to die of neglect were you to receive a death sentence.”

Whatever composure Horatio had regained slid away. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. How did Devergesse know? The Don must have told him. A strange discomfort twisted inside Horatio’s gut. Archie was a complicated matter, but it was true, none of them would care for Archie. They waited for him to die so they could escape, the heartless fools. Yet this was no place to give into the anger on that subject, not when his life might very well hang in the balance here. Perhaps there was no harm in hearing Devergesse out. Perhaps he could even use the Frenchman’s motives to his advantage. 

Sighing, Horatio straightened reluctantly. “What is it you want, sir?” He wished Devergesse would stop staring at him in that fashion. 

Instead of answering straight away, Devergesse made his way to the sofa as though they had all the time in the world, sly as a fox. He sat, leaning back against the cushions in the elegant fashion of an aristocrat, lifting a hand and beckoning Horatio to stand before him, fixing his gaze on him like an invisible rope to pull him there physically if necessary.

Puzzled, Horatio did as the man asked, placing himself before Devergesse on the sofa. For a long moment, he was subjected to a careful inspection by the man’s unnerving eyes. They studied him from head to foot, a soft smile touching the Frenchman’s lips all the while. Horatio dropped his eyes, suddenly feeling like a slave on the auction block. Somehow, he could sense the open assault the man prepared to wage on his dignity.

“I suppose I have been in want of company,” Devergesse imparted at last. “Life here lacks certain pleasures. It is not often that a man of discriminating taste finds such attractive company.”

Horatio’s confusion deepened. “I don’t understand, sir.” Did he expected him to arrange a tryst with Miss Cobham? He had heard that the French regarded female actresses to be on much the same level as whores, and he had heard of women trading their favors for their lives.

Another soft chuckled filled the air, bringing hot color to Horatio’s cheeks. “I think you do.” Devergesse’s eyes held his while the man reached down, slowly starting on the buttons of his breeches.

Horatio’s throat went dry. For a moment he stood paralyzed with shock. It was not Miss Cobham’s favors the man sought, but his. Sodomy, Horatio’s thoughts began to flail, it was as illegal as spying. But then he remembered that Sodomy was no longer a crime in the new Republic of France.

Devergesse granted him no time to protest the insult to his honor. He reached out, taking hold of Horatio’s arms. There was only time for Horatio to resent that he was not physically strong; he felt himself sinking under the pull of Devergesse’s grip until his knees hit the hard floor. The crawling sensation in his skin intensified; he did not know where to look, unable to bear being eye-level with the Frenchman’s open fly. 

His vulnerable position seemed to please the Colonel; his hand came up, curling under Horatio’s chin, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing over Horatio’s lips as the man’s eyes seemed to strip him where he knelt. 

“You have lips like a fine flower,” the Frenchman purred, “full and soft.” Horatio’s stomach lurched when a finger slid into his mouth. He could taste the salt on the Colonel’s skin. “And like the best flowers,” Devergesse went on, “you are delicately wet on the inside. We lack for women here, but that exquisite mouth of yours is more than enough to satisfy me, I think.”

Horatio stared, heat in his face. The man could not expect him to . . . That finger slipped free from his mouth, allowing him to speak, his voice coming rough. “I . . .” Horatio could not finish. His throat had gone tight with shock.

Devergesse’s hands were on either side of his face now, hot as two brands, drawing him forward toward his open breeches. “That is the bargain I seek, Mr. Hornblower.” His hands slipped to caress the back of Horatio’s head, fingers twining in his curls. “And you will not fulfill your part half-heartedly. I want you to suck like you mean to draw the nectar of eternal youth from my flesh.”

Horatio recoiled inside, twisted up with disbelief and repulsion, but Devergesse brought his head down all the way. He wanted to jump when his lips touched hot, hard flesh, yet the hand at his jaw and the one in his curls would not allow it. The Frenchman was stronger. Even when Devergesse took one hand away to push his exposed flesh against Horatio’s lips, Horatio could not get free. 

His eyes squeezed shut. He was aware of only certain things in that moment, the edge of the sofa digging into his chest where he knelt, the sweat on his palms against the floor, and the salty, hot, and seemingly huge organ sinking into his mouth. 

Horatio choked, his tongue trapped against his bottom teeth by the thickness of the Frenchman’s manhood. But his revulsion only made his lips tighten, drawing a sharp groan from Devergesse above him. The hand in his hair tightened, guiding his head back and then forward again, starting a rhythm so that Horatio’s lips slid over that hard flesh as one’s hand would in the act self-pleasure.

But that forced rhythm did not please. Devergesse’s grip tightened painfully in Horatio’s hair, halting him long enough for the humiliation of how he must have looked with the man’s cock in his mouth to cut Horatio up inside. 

“You’ll have to work harder than that to buy my silence,” Devergesse slurred above him, his voice rough and thick now. 

Horatio’s hands curled feebly into the floor. He knew what the man wanted, to be actively pleased the way the men claimed whores pleased in their lewd yarns after returning from a night ashore, those filthy stories Horatio thought he had not listened to until now. His thoughts reeled. His life in danger, the dispatches, this trap his beloved logic could not free him from . . . Horatio did not know why he found his head moving back and forth in the way Devergesse had shown him, lips gliding and tugging on their own at that hard, thick thing that had invaded him. Perhaps he simply wanted this encounter over with and giving Devergesse what he wanted was the only way. Perhaps he had too damning a habit of never going about a task half-heartedly.

Whatever the case, his slippery, repulsive ministrations had a potent effect. Devergesse’s hands loosened. He groaned low, leaning his head back, until the strain in him exploded into something worse. Horatio was not prepared for the sudden tightening of the Frenchman’s body followed by the quick rush of liquid filling his mouth. He choked on it as though it were seawater, holding the floor as if to brace himself for the salty flood that he irrationally feared would burn him away.

He sank back onto his heels when the shaft in his mouth was no longer marble hard, but soft and sticky and disgusting. He felt light-headed and sick, drawing in heavy draughts of air where the thick musky scent of the man’s loins had seemed to smother him before. The sickness mounted with the burn in his throat and thought of raising his head and seeing Devergesse still there. How could he meet the man’s eyes now after submitting to this abasement? Irrationally, Horatio wished he could transport the man from the room with his will, somewhere he would never have to face him again.

After several endless rasping moments, Devergesse stood up, buttoning his trousers, a triumphant smirk upon his face while Horatio swam in shame, wanting nothing but water to wash the foul taste of the man away, or perhaps wine to wash away the memory of what he happened here, what he had allowed. 

The Frenchman moved for the door. Horatio hoped he would exit without comment. But that hope was dashed when Devergesse stopped, turning to him with his fingers on the handle of the door

“As I said, two very interesting prisoners. The actress who pretends to be a Duchess and the whore who pretends to be gentleman.” 

Once again, his soft chuckle assailed Horatio’s ears, ringing of triumph and something more, something knowing that stung Horatio’s cheeks just when he thought the shame could not burn any stronger. His incrimination sealed, Devergesse opened the door, slipping out of the room. 

Horatio was left there staring at the floor, as though searching to collect the pieces of his broken dignity. Devergesse’s words rang in his ears, cutting to the core. Perhaps he had no call to be angry at Miss Cohbam when the secret he would carry inside from this night would be far worse than her deception.


End file.
